Free Web NovelChapter 90: Chapter 90
Circe had been eager to begin her riding lessons. She hadn’t said so outright, but it was evident in the way Ragnar always caught her staring off toward the stables whenever she was in the flower gardens. From the window of his study, he often found himself watching her, when he should have been reviewing the week’s ledgers that sat untouched on his desk.
Instead of columns of numbers, it was the soft, delicate curve of her face that occupied his mind. His gaze traced the dips and contours of her cheeks, the slope of her nose, the delicate line of her jaw. He was like a fool, wishing to trace it again, this time with his fingers rather than his eyes.
But he wouldn’t dare. Not only because he suspected that Circe would carve him open with a butter knife if he tried, but because he knew it would be a recipe for disaster.
Ever since that night when he had hoisted her over his shoulder in the dim halls, the memory had replayed in his head like an addiction. He could still feel the way she had fit against him, the warmth of her body, the way her hair had brushed his arm. If he let himself trace the supple curve of her flesh with his fingertip just once, he feared he would never be able to stop.
And if she ever knew the thoughts currently swimming in his mind, she’d probably hurl the heaviest object within reach at his head.
He had never given her a specific date or time for their first lesson. That had been deliberate, a way to buy himself time to find her a suitable riding instructor. The plan had been simple: give her something to occupy her days while keeping himself at a safe distance.
But that plan had... faltered.
Days had passed since he’d made the offer to teach her to ride Lamorian steeds, and each time he found a candidate who might fit the role, he would dismissed them for one reason or another. The first was far too young, the second was far too old. The third and fourth smiled too much in a way that made him distrust them instantly. The fifth candidate had been a man with a similar build to Ragnar, arms and legs corded with muscle, with broad shoulders that strained the seams of his tunic.
Ragnar had taken one hard look at the man and dismissed him on the spot.
His pickiness had left him without a single suitable candidate, a fact that, deep down, a small part of him secretly delighted in. Seeing Circe stare longingly toward the stables with that wistful look etched into her features had finally made him cave like a poorly stacked tower of dishes.
One lesson, he told himself. He would guide her through one single lesson, and then whoever he hired afterward could take over from where he left off.
That was how he found himself walking beside her now, boots crunching on the gravel path as they made their way toward the stables.
"These particular horses can seem aggressive to those who aren’t trained well enough to handle them," he was saying. Circe kept her gaze fixed ahead, but he knew she was listening closely. "Lamorian steeds are intelligent, but they can be stubborn, hard-headed and difficult to reason with—"
"Like their owner," Circe quipped without missing a beat. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com
Ragnar pressed a hand over his chest, a grin tugging at his lips. "Why, princess, I’m flattered." ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom
But even as he smiled, something heavier pressed at the back of his mind.
Two days ago, the drawing of the man who had attacked Circe had been delivered to him, rendered with the clarity and detail he had demanded. Now that he had it, he was no longer certain how best to proceed. He could feel the weight of the folded parchment in his pocket as tangibly as if it were made of stone.
Just before they reached the stable doors, Ragnar stopped walking.
"Tell me something, princess." His tone had shifted to something cooler, quieter. He drew the parchment from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out for her to see. "Do you recognize this man?"
She turned toward him, brows lifting slightly.
Circe’s eyes narrowed in mild suspicion before she looked at the drawing. Her gaze lingered for several moments before she shook her head.
"No. I don’t."
Ragnar stepped closer, raising the parchment so it was level with her eyes. "Look closely."
Her eyes flashed with irritation as she took a deliberate step back. "I said I don’t know him."
A long beat of silence stretched between them. Then another. Both stood unmoving, eyes locked, as if each was waiting for the other to yield first.
Ragnar broke the silence.
"This is the man who attacked you at the Hawthorne estate."
Circe furrowed her brows and she shook her head immediately. "No. I saw his face clearly that night, and this isn’t him."
"This was the man retrieved from the pond," Ragnar replied, his voice steady as he studied every flicker of her expression. "He even had a gash across his throat."
Her frown deepened. "Then there must be a mistake because this man"—she jabbed a finger at the drawing—"isn’t the one who tried to murder me."
The conviction in her voice was unshakable. Ragnar didn’t interrupt her, he simply watched her, letting the weight of her certainty settle between them.
When he thought back to that night, the image came unbidden: a deep red cloth floating on the pond’s surface. There had only been one body sinking beneath the water alongside her.
Showing her the drawing had been meant to confirm a suspicion. Now, her response and the fact that she was adamant this was not the face of her attacker only solidified it. It convinced him that whoever had sent the first assassin had also orchestrated this new attempt on Circe’s life as well.
